


I Want You

by sandwastesinthevoidofmychest



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Background Mystrade, Bisexual John, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock has feelings, Sherlock-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of john having casual sex, sherlock is lovesick, so many feels, these precious idiots, well definitely implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7238467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did he let this happen to himself?<br/>How did an army doctor claw into his chest and make a home there? Why did Sherlock have a whole separate wing of his mind-palace dedicated to the man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song 'Oceans' by Seafret.   
> I heard it for the first time a few months ago and so badly wanted to write a fic for Johnlock but only recently got this idea.  
> Thank life for being shit, sadness, an old crush getting in contact with me to tell me about their new serious relationship, and last but not least, the bus driver who looks like a chill version of Rupert Graves that had a timetable which meant I got him going and coming back from work and could not continue a Mystrade fic because I actually needed to be able to look at him to buy a ticket.
> 
> Enjoy!   
> (Any mistakes are my own as I didn't have a beta)

Nights like these made Sherlock want to go to the nearest drug den and get so high as to block out the sounds, or take a train to Sussex and live by the sea and never return, never let John know where he was.   
  
It begins the same each time. John leaves to go out with Greg or with a co-worker and ends with him coming home with a woman. Any woman, it doesn't matter, Sherlock had never been able to discern the pattern. He doesn't want to, he leaves. He has to.   
  
Greg looks at him differently now, Sherlock couldn't pinpoint if it was with sadness or with pity and he's so angry because he knows, he fucking _knows_ that Mycroft has told him.  
  
Sometimes he wants to rip himself apart, do something incredibly wreckless. He has thought about standing on buildings but he knows that he might not come back down in the conventional way. Sometimes that seems like an incredible idea, absolutely genius.   
  
That would be ironic. 'Genius' sociopath leaves world because of emotions. It's almost hysterical really. Sherlock knows that he is inherently a bad person; he's been told that since he was a child. But the thing is, the thing that really bloody hurts is that John Watson makes him _want_ to be a better person.   
  
Sherlock lives with the belief that he would do anything that John wanted. John telling him to eat after a long case and when Sherlock can't remember his last meal? He eats. John cooking him the most atrocious eggs he has ever tasted? He'll eat them. John ordering him to just stop, that chasing after an armed man while unarmed is an incredibly stupid thing to do? He'll stop and try something else.   
  
Hell, if John Watson told him to jump of a cliff or shoot himself, Sherlock knew he would absolutely do it.   
Maybe, Sherlock thinks, that would be preferable.   
  
Anything would be better than this... _ache_. It sits in his chest and has made a home there. It makes his thoughts linger on the shape and smoothness of John's hands, how they would feel on his bare skin, how John is a dangerous soldier but also a compassionate doctor. It seems so contradictory to everything Sherlock knows.   
  
At first, it was bearable. He was preoccupied with case after case, but eventually he had to stop. He thought he was having a heartattack, but no, this was a different kind of attack, the type that poets that Sherlock has sneered at since childhood would write about.   
  
Sometimes he feels sick to his stomach, sometimes he is physically ill because of it. This shouldn't be happening to him. It was never meant to.  
  
He'd rather drown. That would be the ideal. Maybe the water would fill his chest and he would feel like a whole man once again, he wouldn't have a John Watson shaped hole in his chest. It's ridiculous and infuriating. He should be able to live with someone and not end up completely infatuated.   
People had never mattered before.   
They shouldn't matter now. In reality, they don't. John does.   
  
There are times when Sherlock catches himself. He realises that he has been staring intently at the man who would have fallen asleep in his chair. What was he trying to do? Imprint this John onto his mental fibres, dedicate a whole turret of his mind palace to him?  
  
There are times when he wakes up sweating and uncomfortable, only to realise that he is alone in his bed and that the feel of John's lips against his neck, against his mouth was all a dream.   
  
Sometimes in his mind palace, he's determined to set the older man in stone. It would make sense really. One day John will be gone.   
He will do what any 'not gay' man would statistically do; find a woman and settle down.   
Leave, move away, have kids.  
Forget about Sherlock.  
  
_Over._  
  
Love.  
A chemical defect, but a never ending method of torture. Sherlock has been in precarious situations before and he would rather repeat them threefold than have to live with this damned excruciating ache. 

 

  
Tonight had to be the last night; Sherlock knew he could not continue this way. He had still been awake, reading about bees actually when he heard the front door open and shut, then came the uneven footsteps and the drunken attempts to keep each other quiet.   
  
Sherlock had fled to his room, but he was still there, he still knew what was happening and what was going to happen. The woman's laugh was artificial and it grated on Sherlock's nerves. He felt like he had no choice. Once he heard the footsteps disappear to John's room, he wrapped himself in his coat and left.  
  
The night air was cold and bitter against his skin. He walked unsteadily, his chest tight. He wasn't sure where exactly he was going to go. He hadn't even brought his phone or keys but there was no way in hell he was going back to 221B right now.  
  
Sherlock knew that if he didn't come back, John would look for him in his usual haunts. Therefore he needed to find somewhere new. He had money, he just needed a hit. Maybe the equivalent of a battering ram; knock him dead right there.   
  
It wasn't a surprise that after about ten minutes of unsteady walking and struggling for breath, that he could see he was being tailed by a black Mercedes. When he stood still, it appeared beside him and an unfamiliar man opened the door for him.   
  
They didn't speak, there was nothing to say.   
The drive wasn't long and he was left at the doorstep to Mycroft's home. He had a key of course, but he felt strange using it, this wasn't his _home_ , he didn’t want this to be his home.

 

Sherlock could hear the doorbell echo and was greeted by a gush of warm air and Greg’s sympathetic smile, pity in his eyes. Sherlock hated it, god how he absolutely loathed it.

“Mycroft is on his way back.” Greg’s voice was gentle, and his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder did not feel right, not like John’s hands. “Let’s get some tea.”

 

“What’s my name today?” Greg asked conversationally, Sherlock could barely look at him, each time he was met by the same pitying expression.

“Godfrey.” Sherlock murmured, clutching his mug of tea close to him as though the warmth would be some sort of defense against the emptiness in his chest.

Greg snorted, “Please never run out of these names.”

But it was still there, even though he was smiling, there was still that look in his eyes.

He would curse Mycroft for telling him, but he is pretty sure Greg already knew beforehand anyway.

It wasn’t hard to see, apparently.

It was obvious to everyone except John.

 

They both heard the click of the front door, it tore through the silence that had fallen across the kitchen. It was a good silence, Sherlock admired Greg; he was not one for conversation where it wasn’t needed. Greg seemed to understand in a way. He had known Mycroft for six years before the interaction that sparked their romantic relationship occurred. The diffference being that he and Mycroft did have feelings for each other, both parties were attracted to each other.

Generally, Sherlock had read, that seems to help the situation.

 

Greg touched Sherlock’s shoulder as he walked past to go and greet Mycroft. Sherlock stared into the distance. Maybe Mycroft could ship him off to some distant part of the earth. Perhaps the north pole, experience first hand how cold John thought his heart was.

 

Sherlock bristled when he heard whispers that he couldn’t discern, but knew that they were about him.

“Brother dear, soon you’ll become part of the furniture.”

“My.” Greg breathed, urging him to apologise.

“We’re glad to have you.”

Sherlock snorted, looking over his shoulder to make eye contact. He cast a glance at Greg, but decided to say it there. After all Greg would be told.

No secrets.

 

“Do you have any cases abroad?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him.

“Preferably ongoing and long-term.”

The brothers locked eyes and an understanding crossed over the elder’s face.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

He’s done it now. He really had.

Either he left or he died; that made sense.

He lay in the dark and closed his eyes. He didn’t know if sleep would come. On nights like these it never did.

 

There was a soft knock on his door before it opened, letting in a pool of light from the hallway.

Mycroft.

“How are you?” Mycroft had shut the door and turned on the bedside lamp before sitting at the edge of Sherlock’s bed.

“Greg told you to come, didn’t he?”

Sherlock wanted so desperately to not sound like he felt his chest was being ripped apart. Instead, he just sounded bitter. Bitter as hell.

 

“Are you going to relapse?” Mycroft’s voice was to the point and Sherlock saw the older man’s forehead crease. Was he worried or was he simply inconvenienced by his presence?

“I want to.” His voice sounded so small.

Mycroft merely nodded, lips forming a line and Sherlock closed his eyes.

“You need to tell John.” That was surprising.

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh, “Yes, because he’d really thank me for interrupting his sex life to say I want drugs.”

“Not that.” Mycroft sighed in frustration. “He needs to know how you feel about him.”

Sherlock frowned deeply, “I know Greg has become a moral compass, but apparently he woke up sentiment too.”

“Shut it, Sherlock.”

“Ah. You’re back.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.” Mycroft mumbled matter-of-factly as he stood and walked towards the door. “Do think about it.”

 

Sherlock curled up amongst the blankets, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

He was tearing apart.

It wasn’t realistically possible, he knew this, but hell, that’s what it felt like.

It was happening nonetheless.

 

-

 

The dreams of falling started slowly, so slowly that they became part of his sleep before he realised.  
  
He would always wake before he hit whatever surface was beneath him. That soon changed.  
  
Sherlock could feel the weight of his chest as he fell. He was alone; sometimes John stood and watched.  
  
At the beginning, when he awoke before landing, he absently thought of a child he had argued with in primary school. It was a blurry memory, he thinks about it every now and again. They told him that if you dream you are falling and don't wake up, you die in real life.   
  
If you dream you die, you really do.   
  
It was such an absurd idea, even to a six year old Sherlock. He had gone home and told Mycroft , who had laughed and assured Sherlock that he was correct in not believing in the 'idiot thought processes' of those around him.  
  
Yet, more than twenty years later, Sherlock would lie awake in the early hours of the morning fighting for breath and wishing that when he hit the ground in his dream, he would die in real life. 

  
Sometimes it was from the top of a building; others from the top of a waterfall. 

  
It could be a tad unrealistic.  
Like once, he remembers it vividly; he was falling through the stars. That was after John had explained the solar system to him. Apparently it was necessary to know. Sherlock didn't think so.   
  
In the dreams where John was present, there were the good and the bad.   
The good ones were when John caught him before he crashed, the other scenario was when John would watch, expressionless, no recognition crossing his eyes when he locked glances with the falling Sherlock.

Sherlock would howl for John, but he never seemed to hear him.

 

-

He had slept, deeply and dreamlessly.

He didn’t think he could have stomached another dream with John in it.

This was so bloody… _human_. Sherlock thought this angrily.

How did he let this happen to himself?

How did an army doctor claw into his chest and make a home there? Why did Sherlock have a whole separate wing of his mind-palace dedicated to the man?

Sherlock tightened his grip on himself, nails digging into his skin.

 

Sherlock heard a door, most probably the front door open and shut, then an extremely loud silence engulfed the house.

He so desperately wanted… _something_ , anything really, anything to not feel like this.

He closed his eyes and curled in on himself, burrowing under the covers and wishing for sleep.

He knew Mycroft often had trouble sleeping, therefore it was highly likely that he would have sleeping pills.

But if Sherlock found any, would he have just stopped after one?

 

Sherlock awoke when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked around the dark room, lost in the state between awake and asleep.

How long had he been asleep for? Part of him was grateful; he hadn’t thought sleep would have been a possibility.

 

At first, Sherlock presumed that the footsteps belonged to Greg, home from a shift.

The thread was familiar, but it was not Lestrade’s or Mycroft’s.

Sherlock’s stomach twisted as the realisation hit.

Those footsteps, they belonged to John Watson.

 

Sherlock could feel bile rising, burning his throat. Why was John here?

The steps stopped outside his door and Sherlock could almost feel John’s hesitation.

How had he found out Sherlock was here?

He closed his eyes as the answer crossed his mind; Greg and Mycroft. Mostly Greg.

 

There were two taps at the door and Sherlock froze. What had John been told?

Should he pretend to be alseep?

After a few seconds he could hear the door knob twist and Sherlock shut his eyes tight.

Daylight filtered into the room and he heard John pause as he tried to deduce the situation in front of him.

If Sherlock disappeared any further under the covers he’d suffocate.

That was a good idea, actually.

 

“Sherlock?” John’s soft voice sent a spasm of pain to Sherlock’s chest, and even if Sherlock wanted to answer, he wouldn’t have been able to.

He could hear short footsteps pass the bed and then more light spilled into the room as John pulled the curtains open. “I’m not stupid, I know you’re awake.” There it was, that small note of fondness and all Sherlock wanted was to disintegrate right there.

“Greg said you were ill.” There were footsteps again as John moved across the room and Sherlock could have sworn that his heartbeat faltered when he felt the matress bow under another weight.

John was too close.

 

He smelt like John.

John didn’t smell like alcohol or a feminine perfume.

No, he smelt like John; a hint of tea and cinnamon.

Sherlock adored him, but Sherlock could not trust himself to speak right now.

 

“What’s wrong?” John sounded so oblivious, so innocent.

Doctor mode.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly when he felt the sting of a tear.

He didn’t cry. Sherlock Holmes did not cry.

_Weak._

 

“You seemed alright yesterday, it could be a 24 hour thing. Have you been vomiting?”

His tears were cold against his cheek, sliding down his skin. Surely that wasn’t logical?

“Greg only said you were ill, so some details would be nice. You need to be in top form for any new cases.”

There was a silence.

Sherlock felt a pressure well up in his throat.

If he tried to talk, it would be obvious.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

 

He felt the matress move as John stood up to move around the bed, to sit on Sherlock’s side.

To sit in the small space that was left between Sherlock and the edge of the matress.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock wanted to speak, he really did.

If he did though, this bloody lump in his throat would betray him.

Sherlock held his breath when he felt John’s hand rest lightly on his forehead.   
“You haven’t a temperature.” John said almost to himself as the heat of his hand disappeared from Sherlock’s forehead. “Speak to me.” John’s voice was almost a whisper and Sherlock felt himself shrink.

If he did do what Mycroft said, what would happen when John inevitably leaves him?

Death of some form, a dark voice murmured in his head.

 

Sherlock moved his arm to swipe away a remaining tear and was taken aback when John grasped his hand.

Not tightly or angrily, just gently.

Neither of the men said anything, but John’s thumb began to make soothing circles on the back of Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock felt some of the tension fade from his body but hell, was his head full of contradictions at that moment.

 

Sherlock finally lifted his head so that he could see John’s face.

That’s all he wanted though, wasn’t it? To see John, to wake and see his face, to see what he would look like if they kissed-he had to stop this right now. It was only going to hurt more when John inevitably left. Because he would. He definitely would.

 

Sometimes the silences between them were pleasant; more often than not, they were loaded with things unsaid. Right now was one of those times.

John knew that Sherlock would talk when he was ready.

The lack of information from Greg had settled his fears about this being drug related.

John brushed his thumb against the back of Sherlock’s hand, making abstract shapes on the younger man’s soft skin.

Sherlock felt like his skin would burn if John kept holding on to him. The burns would act as a reminder of the John he could never have when John left.

The thing is, John was bound to leave him. If Sherlock told him the truth, he could lose him, just as he could equally lose him to the promise of a wife and a family.

He was going to lose John either way.

Might as well take the leap rather than just waiting to fall.

 

Sherlock inhaled deeply before he glanced up at John again, this time making eye contact.

“John.” John’s face showed confusion and concern. Sherlock realised that his voice was different, more vulnerable. John had never heard this in his voice before.

“I’m right here.”

There it was. Right there. That lie but Sherlock’s most fervent wish.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, but tried to sit up, move away from John.

John refused to let go of his hand.

“No.” Sherlock breathed out, feeling as though he had just been punched.

John’s forehead creased in confusion but he stayed silent.

“I-“ Sherlock’s voice quivered and John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock closed his eyes, he couldn’t look at John without wanting to scream, without the lump in his throat betraying him. The tears were humiliating enough.

“What do you need? I’ll do whatever I can t-“

“You.” Sherlock cut across him, just one syllable.

If this was going to be the nail in his coffin, he might as well get it over with.

 

“What do you need from me?” John’s confusion was clear on his face, alarm in his eyes.

Sherlock felt like someone had just punched the air out of him.

There were tears stinging at his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

Did John really not understand, or was he treading carefully?

“You.” Sherlock breathed, daring to look at John. “I want-no-I need you.”

John stared at him, eyes wide and mouth open in an ‘o’ shape. His grip lessened on Sherlock’s hand, almost letting him go.

This was it.

This was how it was going to end.

Sherlock could feel himself falling and he so badly wished it was a dream.

But no, he had just uttered the most truthful thing in his life and now John was going to leave. This was no dream.

 

John let go of Sherlock’s hand, his own falling back to rest on his knee.

Sherlock felt like someone was literally sawing him in half, the pain was unbearable. As soon as he felt the cool air hit the space where John had been holding, something in him snapped.

He moved so that he was no longer on the bed, standing tall he walked over to the door and opened it, then glanced back at John, who was watching him carefully.

“Go.” Sherlock’s voice was rough, caught against the rising lump in his throat. “I understand.”

John stayed sitting and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t-“

“I’ll come by and get my things and then I’ll…I’ll find somewhere else.”

“Sherlock-“

“Leave, John…just go.” Sherlock dug his nails into his palms, trying to find even a little bit of pain to distract from the one throbbing in his chest.

Sherlock was going to leave Baker Street. He was going to leave home. Where would he even go?

He had a few ideas, all of them ‘a bit not good.’

Most of them ending up with certain death.

 

“Forget…forget I said it. I-I’ll go and-“

“Sherlock-“

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, tears renewing their threats to fall. He wouldn’t be able to stand much longer, he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore. John didn’t need to see that.

“Sherlock-“ John murmured softly as he stood up slowly.

“I never meant for this-“

“Shut up Sherlock.” John’s shoulders were tense, but his voice was surprisingly gentle. He crossed the small space between them, frowning when Sherlock flinched, as though he was expecting to be hit. “Sherlock, breathe.”

Sherlock almost wanted to laugh at that. Bitterly.

Breathing is boring! Breathing is prolonging this situation.

Sherlock could feel John’s heat in front of him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t deduce the look on John’s face.

 

Sherlock was not expecting to feel John’s hand cup his face, the calloused tips of his index and middle finger brush so gently across his cheek.

John’s warmth, it felt like an electric shock, and oh god, he can’t remember how to breathe. _John._

John is all he knows, all he wants to know.

 

John’s free hand made its way up Sherlock’s arm, leaving hairs standing in their wake.

Sherlock was cold, but John was so warm. He could feel John’s warm breath on his face.

‘John! John! John!’ Each beat of his heart seemed to cry.

This could be the last time John ever touches him. This could be the end.

 

John’s hand trailed up to Sherlock’s head, losing itself in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock could feel the warm pressure of John’s fingers against his scalp.

“Sherlock.” The words were barely a whisper and the hand at his cheek moved to the back of his neck, causing Sherlock to shudder. “I… _fuck it_.” John’s voice wavered on the edge of something, Sherlock didn’t know what, John’s tender touches were overloading his brain.

 

Sherlock watched with wide eyes as John’s face moved the closest to him that he’s ever been and he could hear the older man’s breath hitch.

Sherlock was frozen to the spot, was this really happening?

John’s hands moved to cup Sherlock’s head and he closed the space between them.

The press of John’s lips against his own made Sherlock’s head heavy. Sherlock desperately wanted to engrave this into his memory, and when John pulled back and gazed at him with brows raised as though he was waiting for him, Sherlock balled his fists into John’s jumper and pulled him back towards him, lips meeting again, crashing together by the sheer force and hunger in the kiss.

 

John’s lips were softer than he’d imagined.

This was real.

Sherlock had never been kissed before.

This was new.

This was John!

This was _everything._

 

John’s hands covered Sherlock’s, and he led him back to the bed without breaking contact with each other.

John sat Sherlock down on the edge of the bed, but stayed standing to give him an advantage height-wise.

There were so many things that Sherlock needed to process; the feel of John’s lips on his, the way his tongue slid across Sherlock’s lips to gain entrance into his mouth; how John tastes; the way every touch was so tender and gentle.

 

When they broke apart for breath, John threaded his hands through Sherlock’s hair, his eyes dark and pupils blown wide.

John looked different, aroused.

Sherlock could feel the unfamiliar warmth of his own arousal flood the bottom of his stomach, awakening something inside him that he couldn’t quiet put the words to at that moment.

All he knew was that he had John right now, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to miss out on this.

 

Still, there was that voice in the back of his head that was convinced that John would leave him. That this was a mistake.

Sherlock tried to fight against it; John was everything he wanted and John had kissed him first!

Sherlock had been sure that John would have left, that he would have had to move away from him, lose everything that made him feel alive without the drugs.

He didn’t need drugs when he had John.

John was everything.

 

John trailed kisses across Sherlock’s cheek and down his neck.

Sherlock’s breathing was uneven now as he tried to direct John back to his mouth, but his stomach turned when he heard John’s voice. “Not here, not now.”

 

Sherlock was falling again.

But he was taken off guard by John’s voice, tinged with worry.

John was going to leave; this was a mistake.

“Sherlock? It’s okay.” John trailed his hands down Sherlock’s arms to take his hands. “I meant lets go home.” His voice was low, almost a purr. “Where we won’t be interrupted.” His kissed Sherlock again, lightly on the lips before pulling back to see the terror fall from Sherlock’s face. “Lets go home.”

 

_You are my home._

**Author's Note:**

> ['Oceans'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aqsL0QQaSP4) by Seafret and ['Home'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjFaenf1T-Y) by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros were listened to a lot during writing this. Check 'em out!
> 
> If anyone wants to contact me (lol ikr) you can find me at my tumblr [here](http://lostallsenseofcontrol.tumblr.com/)


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